HOW GAY ART THOU, SHAKESPEARE?

I came across an article in the Advocate last week, another piece speculating that William Shakespeare was gay based on—Hark!—NEW EVIDENCE! 

 

Shakespeare’s sexual orientation…Is it much ado about nothing? 

 

There was a time in my life when it would have mattered. In my teens and early twenties in the pre-internet world, I was still a closeted gay. I lived in Texas and nobody was gay. Nobody dared. 

 

By the time I was twenty-four, I had the sense to get the hell out of the state. I moved to Malibu, perhaps hoping Ken would come to his senses and dump Barbie. Ah, but that would not go my way. In Southern California, there were plenty of gays for Ken to choose from. 

 

Still, we were a restrained lot, passing for straight as best we could until we’d hit West Hollywood on weekends. Shouting, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” was not a daring feat in the gay ghetto. I longed for the chance to shake off the drama of having to come out to people in my life, one person at a time. I wanted to be free to be gay in Santa Monica, in Calabasas…even in—gasp—Orange County.

 

Back then in the late ’80s and early ’90s, coming out was especially important. We needed the numbers. We needed people in every household to know someone who was gay. Knowing people of a certain minority humanizes that minority, chips away at reflex stereotypes and ultimately reduces hate while reaching toward acceptance. It’s why I longed for a politician or celebrity to come out. Such were the times that coming out risked career kill for people in the public eye.

 

One of my favourite t-shirts I owned back in that era was white with an inverted pink triangle, front and centre. Surrounding the triangle in small all-caps block lettering were the names of public figures in history who were queer. The fact that Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and Gertrude Stein were included implicitly legitimized gayness. Yes, famous, talented gays in history contributed to advancing science and culture. Ain’t gays grand?!

 

Of course, I only dared wear my shirt in my apartment—kind of like a pajama top—or when I went to West Hollywood. I wasn’t educating others, but I suppose I was still assuring myself that I was okay. 

 

Back then, I would have loved to have had Shakespeare on the t-shirt. What a coup if the gays could claim Sir William! (Actually, he was never knighted. Humph.) 

 

Henry Wriothesley

The evidence that Shakespeare may have had a male lover comes off as straining matters. It goes back to a photograph of his first patron, Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton. (Oh, Henry. Was thou a gent of importance?) Reputed scholars are making much of the earl’s appearance in the photo, a portrait that was apparently in Shakespeare’s possession (though the article never states this). As described by the Advocate, “[i]n the miniature, Wriothesley’s long blonde [sic?] ringlets, fair skin, and pearl earring make him look more androgynous than he does in other portraits.”

 

Well, here we go, playing up stereotypes regarding a person’s looks…

 

By gosh, the man is even wearing a “floral night jacket”!

 

And there’s more!

 

As was common during the time, the miniature was “mounted on the back of a playing card” and—wait for it—this card just happened to be a heart.

 

And…there’s more!

 

One of the hearts is “vandalised,” the symbol covered by the image of a “spade (or maybe a spear).”

 

This quite obviously reveals heartbreak, according to some reputed scholars. Alas, whatever Shakespeare and Wriothesley had did not endure.

 

In my twenties, I would have nodded my head to every piece of circumstantial “evidence” in the article. Lo and behold, Shakespeare was gay! I would have been gleeful. If the world’s most famous playwright was gay, then being gay was surely okay. Maybe I’d have added his name to my t-shirt in permanent marker.

 

There you go, world. Since Shakespeare was gay, it’s okay for me to be gay, too.

 

Ah, yes, such were the early ’90s when we had so few out public figures to be our trailblazers and role models. 

 

How far we have come.

  

BAN BANTER & TARGETING TRANS

No gun, no shooting. That’s my firm stance regarding the American “right” to bear arms. (Read the Second Amendment and tell me how gun-owning Joe Citizen living in an apartment in Peoria is part of a “well regulated militia.”) When it comes to gun control, I’m firmly against gun possession unless someone is on the job in a militia-like position, say a police officer, security guard or member of the military. 

 

That said, I’m also against stripping gun rights from certain people in the population while gun possession remains permissible to regular folks. The only exception I can accept is when someone is determined by a judge or a psychiatrist to be a threat to oneself or others. Safety then becomes a greater concern.

 

But gun advocates in the U.S. always blame the shooter and never see a problem with the existence and widespread ownership of guns. This blaming occurs following every mass shooting. Recently, two children were killed and eighteen were injured when a twenty-three-year-old shot up a Minnesota church. According to multiple reports, the shooter identified as transgender. 

 

You can guess where this is going…

 

In addition to the obligatory, ineffectual thoughts and prayers, some people are calling for a ban on gun ownership for all people who are trans. If one shooter who happens to be trans can cause harm with legally-obtained guns then, by golly, maybe every trans person is similarly dangerous. Yes, preposterous.

 

It’s a slippery slope when laws start cherry-picking who has a certain right and who doesn’t. Such tactics are inherently discriminatory. The onus then falls on the government to show that the discrimination is justified. 

 

According to a CNN article (and other news outlets), the Department of Justice is “seriously considering whether it can use its rulemaking authority to follow on to Trump’s determination to bar military service by transgender people and declare that people who are transgender are mentally ill and can lose their Second Amendment rights to possess firearms.”

 

My initial response was an eye roll. However, nothing said or associated with Trump can be dismissed as rhetoric. There are plenty of executive orders (including the ban on transgender people serving in the military) that have arisen from what might have once been considered idle threats and/or cheap talk to “rally the base.”

 

The argument for labelling people who identify as transgender mentally ill arises from the current DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) of the American Psychiatric Association. “Transgender” is not listed as a mental health condition but “gender dysphoria” is. There are nuanced differences in definitions such that gender dysphoria may only include some people who are transgender, that being those with “strong” desires or convictions associated with discontent regarding gender. The nuance can unfortunately feel tenuous.

 

As I’ve noted in previous posts (for example, here and here), because transgender people are a relatively small sector of the population (say, 2%) and are unlikely to vote Republican, they are easy targets of a conservative agenda seeking to demonize or freak-ify not just trans people but anyone who is anything under the LGBTQ umbrella. 

 

I will admit I cringed when reports came out the shooter was trans. Trans people must be perfect citizens. There can be no opportunity for criticism or attack on account of the words or actions of any single person who identifies as trans or genderfluid. Conservatives froth. As noted in the CNN article, however, only five trans people have been perpetrators in the 5,700 mass shootings in the U.S. since 2013. (5,700! Let that number sink in. Clearly, mass shootings cannot be significantly reduced by banning guns as acts of politically-based tokenism.)

 

Selective gun bans are unlikely to be upheld in court. In January of this year, a federal appeals court struck down a law that prevented 18-20 year olds from buying handguns. I suspect any executive order, policy or law that restricts the gun ownership from people who are trans or even gender dysphoric will be deemed an overly broad infringement on the hallowed Second Amendment. Still, that talk and the contemplation further villainize and cast hate on the trans community. Damage is done.

 

This “serious” talk may go away within days. It may only be part of the blame game that conservatives play after every mass shooting. Blame videogames, blame a song, blame a book. Blame divorces, blame basement living, blame an affinity for Goth appearances. Just never, never blame guns.  

 

 

 

 

 

  

I AM ROBIN

I don’t know how accurately this comparison will fit, but if my partner Evan and I were superheroes, I’d be Robin to his Batman. 

 

When it comes to style, holy rockin’ it, Batman/Evan always looms larger. In the Batmobile, Robin/I always ride shotgun. Yes, I’m the sidekick.

 

This comes as no surprise. On our first date, Evan talked of his most recent date, before which he told the guy how to dress. “That won’t be me,” I said. “I dress as I dress.” And yet, holy inchworm, Evan’s style sense has gradually entered my closet. 

 

Even with his style influence, Batman will always shine over Robin/me. Just look at the characters in the old TV series. Batman dresses in classic black and silver, with a full hood and golden accessories. Robin, by contrast, is a bit of a mess. Is he an elf, clad in red and green? What’s with the clashing yellow cape and underwhelming goggles? Even Batman’s chest-centered bat logo has more flair than Robin’s unimaginative “R” on the left pec. 

 

If Batman is GQ, Robin is Highlights magazine for children. Batman is primetime; Robin is “Sesame Street,” with Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch as influences.

 

I’m acutely aware of our Batman/Robin roles when we travel. I pack decent clothes with comfort in mind. Evan packs to be a statement, practicality be damned. From his swoopy hair to his snakeskin cowboy boots, he has a complete look whereas I sometimes come off as promoting an adult line of Garanimals. I have lots of nice, pricey clothes but most everything would be characterized as understated.

 

We spent the long weekend in Taos, New Mexico, a town of characters, the men sporting slicked back hair pulled into a ponytail, modest t-shirts and faded denim jeans. Wherever we went, Evan’s cowboy chic garnered compliments. Holy shadow lurker, I didn’t even register.

 

Our looks suit our personalities. Evan is outgoing and, yes, likes attention. Compliments immediately lift his spirits. I’m an introvert who prefers not standing out. Let me go about whatever I’m going about without having to engage in chitchat. I am proud to stand by my man, but I’m relieved not to put so much thought and work into my look. In many ways, we’re an opposites-attract couple. And, holy Fashion Week, it seems to work.

EXTREMIST ANTI-WOKEISM AT ITS WORST

Sometimes just shaking my head is not enough to carry on with my day and erase all recollection of a ludicrous, insulting act. Anti-Wokeism has become more zealous and outrageous than any current notion of Wokeism. If you want to see red, read this news item on The Advocate’s website. The rainbow crosswalk at the site of Orlando nightclub Pulse has gone black for the second time in a week. It’s now being guarded by Florida Department of Transportation employees. Apparently, the National Guard was unavailable.

 

Pulse, you will recall, is where a gunman murdered forty-nine clubgoers on June 12, 2016, most of them Latino and/or queer. 

 

This is clearly no ordinary rainbow crosswalk. Florida has been painting over other such crosswalks in places like Miami and Delray Beach, calling such installations a political act and a safety risk. (Safety risk? WTF?!) 

 

The Orlando crosswalk serves, in part, as a memorial. It was approved by the Florida Legislature and then-Republican governor Rick Scott. Current Republican governor Ron DeSantis even posed for a photo op at the site in 2019 before Anti-Wokeism became a Republican obsession. This is nothing short of a deplorable act in Florida’s ongoing Don’t Say Gay attempts to rewrite reality. 

 

The families of those that died at Pulse and the people who survived deserve better. The LGBTQ community deserves better. Florida deserves better. I hope residents continue to repaint the crosswalk in rainbow hues. To blacken the road again only takes a horrendous hate crime and covers all memory of it with more hate.

 

Outrageous.

 

 

 

  

TOGETHER & APART

With summer Pride events winding down—Edmonton and Calgary are still slated for August—I wonder how much a parade or a dance broadens minds. I’m not thinking about straight people. Our allies have shown they love a party as much as we do. Their attendance does seem to create more of a connection just from being there. My wondering concerns all the letters that comprise that alpha-numeric combo that sometimes represents us: LGBTQQIP2SAA (or something like that—there are various versions).

 

Is the rainbow flag sufficient or are more lines, colours and shapes required? What is it about queer that fails to encompass all?

 

A passage comes to mind from Jeremy Atherton Lin’s Gay Bar (Back Bay Books, 2021):

We hear the word community all the time. Often it 

sounds like wishful thinking. Queer community is just 

as vague—just piling a confusing identity onto an 

elusive concept. Maybe community…excludes inherently…

Imagining London, I saw not one big queer coterie, but 

different people moving in different directions, entropic. 

I thought of amiable moments I shared with nurses or 

people who worked in local shops. They came to mind

clearly. A queer community I couldn’t picture.

 

Community arises from coming together and wanting to belong. Hello, Pride. But I agree with Lin that, once you define it, there will always be outsiders. Even allies don’t quite have an in. They can support queers, but as heterosexuals, they are still technically apart rather than a part. I hear some queer people bemoan how bachelorette parties have taken over drag brunch venues. I also hear disdain in their voices when they say words like heteronormative and breeders, as if all things straight people do should be shunned. There are differences between heterosexual and queer lifestyles and mentalities but, as someone who deeply felt rejected growing up, I’ve never wanted to reject in turn. I don’t twist the golden rule into, “Do unto others as they do unto you.” Hate breeding hate just feels exhausting.

 

The exclusions that get my back up even more are based on resentments and dissociations within our alpha-numeric gobbledygook designation. When I was coming out, I’d hear of gays hating lesbians and vice versa, while both groups dissed bisexuals. In the 2020s, there are people in the “community” seeking to separate themselves from trans, binary and gender-fluid identities. In turn, I’ve been dismissed by a couple of trans people who vilify my gayness and lump me in with The Patriarchy. My queerness, my outsider-ness is not outsider enough. I cannot be trans; I am just an ally. I must not take up trans space. 

 

I do get the importance of having times and places that are just for people like you. Sometimes “community” can be defined broadly as with the grander Pride events but sometimes, even during Pride Week or Month, there are gatherings just for lesbians or trans or people who identify as asexual or aromantic. People perk up when what they have in common is more specifically in common. When I meet another vegetarian (not a vegan), I literally bounce. A vegetarian? Like me! The conversation can go deeper, the connections greater. Same, no doubt when two people who are bisexual or pansexual have an opportunity to chat. 

 

Sometimes I focus too much on the divisions and all the easy ways there are to pick apart any notion of a queer community. With a glass-half-empty lens, I am brought down by the othering that pops up within and by the disdain I hear as people protect and distinguish their more specific identities. 

 

Yes, the queer “community” has its own fractures and divisions. But then what community doesn’t? Unity is so hard to achieve when we’re all independent thinkers.

 

I was away at the family cottage when Vancouver had its Pride events but maybe a big ol’ “everybody’s welcome” Pride parade might have done me some good this year. Maybe I need to zoom out more often instead of zooming in.  

IS IT BACK?

The question in the title popped in my head but it’s wrong. “Is it worse?” is far more accurate. The answer: “Of course.”

 

Talking about my eating disorder again. I have nine hours until I eat. I’m telling myself I’m just dieting, but I don’t think people with eating disorders know how to just diet. As someone with anorexia, my restriction is significant in the best of times, extreme under other circumstances.

 

Sitting here in a café, I perked up when the barista asked if I wanted water: “Regular or sparkling?” I chose the latter, cheered that the bubbles will trick my stomach into thinking I’m consuming something more substantial. 

 

Club soda is now on my shopping list.

 

I recently spent two weeks at the cottage and that “vacation,” a trip intended for relaxation has triggered me. Driving from the airport, I stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on my “safe” foods. I tend to treat myself to a few scones on vacation and I needed to know the fridge supplies had things that would somewhat offset my intake. This is what I always do when I go to the cottage.

 

The problem was this wasn’t a regular cottage stay. Normally it’s almost all downtime, just me and the deck, the beach below offering an inviting morning walk, the river suggesting a quick swim (when no one could possibly be watching). 

 

Throughout the fortnight, however, I only had two dinners on my own. Friends and relatives were around me the rest of the time. It was all lovely. These are wonderful people. But, as is often the case, food is a central conduit for social activity. My eating disorder slithers on the sidelines in social situations. I don’t like to be a spectacle. I don’t want people seeing my small portions and pushing more food on me. When poked and prodded, the eating disorder gets worse. It doubles down. I eat even less. I refuse social invitations. I isolate.

 

I truly thought I was doing well. I ate “normally.” I socialized as best I could. I enjoyed the conversations. I appreciated the food. 

 

The eating disorder was left to sit back and stew. It waited patiently for the visits to end, for the time to take over, guilting me and sending me into severe restriction mode. The opportunity came as soon as I drove to the airport. No farewell donut, no mixed berry scone. Not even that little baggy of pretzels on the plane. 

 

I didn’t stand a chance in trying to dismiss the eating disorder. I was worn out. As an introvert, all the socializing left me exhausted. I was ignoring hunger pangs before I’d even landed back in Vancouver. 

 

People talk about being too tired to eat. For me, it’s the other way around. Not eating makes me too tired. My afternoons are write-offs. No writing. It doesn’t seem to make sense—not much makes sense with an eating disorder—but the only “productive” thing I can do midafternoon is exercise. I never think about food when I’m working out. The exercise is another part of my disorder. It demands full attention. There are no excuses permitted. 

 

I have several friends I’m supposed to contact now that I’m back. It’s been a week and I don’t have the energy to make any attempt to reach out. My social exhaustion is both separate from and woven into the eating disorder. The isolation helps me stick to my disordered behaviours.

 

As I’m sixty now, I wear the weight on my body differently. Even a year ago, some of the weight I perceive as gaining from pastries and full meals would have already dropped off. Only a little weight loss typically shows. Less than ten pounds under my standard weight and I start to look scary—gaunt face, protruding ribs, loss of muscle. The weight insists on lingering this time around. This will make my heightened eating disorder behaviours more established, perhaps even more drastic.

 

Yes, I’m thinking of club soda as a meal.

 

I’m telling myself this is just a rough patch. Some temporary tweaking. I should be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

AT A LOSS FOR WORDS

I’m a writer. I pride myself in the precision of word choice and the way I phrase things to represent my voice. Basically, words matter.

 

I’m also a sixty-year-old. I pride myself in looking younger and fitter than the average guy my age. Still, I get called “sir” more than I’d like, age spots are popping up on my body and there are plenty of other indignities.

 

One of the indignities intersects with my identity as a writer. In recent months, I’ve sometimes struggled with word choice. I sit in front of my laptop, cursor blinking, waiting, waiting…

 

It’s not that I’m searching my brain for a five-syllable word for nice or a metaphor to represent the lingering ache in my legs after a once run-of-the-mill hike. Instead, I’m grasping for something ordinary, a basic term I’ve known since I was four. The word hovers but fails to land. It’s there, tip of the tongue, back of my mind, perhaps slumbering somewhere in my pinky finger. It refuses to appear in a useful part of my brain so I can type it and quiet that dang blinking cursor for a moment or two.

 

While at Evan’s Colorado cabin, I’d gone to a café to write and he texted to see if I could buy some garden pruners, itself a challenging task in a place that was a village at most. I stopped into the convenience store, hoping pruners might share a shelf with bean dip, Doritos and Super Soakers. 

 

No luck. (No surprise.)

 

I asked if there was a…a…a…something or other nearby. The term escaped me. 

 

“Is there a…?

 

“A…”

 

My face reddened. My armpits activated. What was the name for a store that carries lots of varied items for gardens and home improvement? They sell mirrors, rope, kitchen tiles, peat moss and, yes, pruners.

 

My brain failed to cough up anything. It was on sleep mode. It’s not fun when my thinking organ decides to play a practical joke on myself.

 

I finally came up with a vague description instead of the term. “Is there a lumber place with tools nearby?”

 

It worked well enough. The owner gave me directions to a shopping center ten minutes away that included a Home Depot and a Walmart. Yes! I was on my way. Home Depot would definitely have pruners.

 

But, as I drove off, I continued to search my brain for what one might call a lumber place with tools. I knew I’d overemphasized the “lumber” element.  

 

Three minutes into my drive, I abruptly pulled into a parking lot for a garden store. Perfect! I’d support an independent business. Pruners purchased.

 

Still, my brain was not forthcoming with what I’d meant when I asked about a lumber place with tools. I fretted about my aging mind. I went dark. Was this the beginning of early-onset dementia?

 

Too often, a forgetful moment now leads to dementia panic.

 

Halfway back to the cabin, the term came to mind at last. Hardware store! In the empty car, I articulated the question as I’d wanted it to be: “Is there a hardware store nearby?” The dashboard was not impressed. In fact, it was nonresponsive. I was relieved nonetheless.

 

The other day, I had another episode of the mind going blank. An incorrect phrase popped in my head as I wrote a passage—“a fiction of one’s imagination.” This was clearly wrong. Fiction and imagination had too much overlap. There was a redundancy. Fiction was not the right word. Still, the more I tried to recall the correct expression, the more my brain doubled down.

 

A fiction of one’s imagination.

A fiction of one’s imagination.

A fiction of one’s imagination.

 

Stop it, brain. Let me think. 

 

Fiction. Fiction. Fiction.

 

This time, the wait wasn’t as long, but I was plenty frustrated with myself. “A figment of my imagination.” Yes! I was so flustered though, I chose not to use the phrase at all. I didn’t want a reminder of my faulty brain in the passage.

 

Again, I worried. Early-onset dementia?

 

This would be detrimental—no, devastating—to me as a writer. This cannot be happening.

 

There are other instances of word recall malfunctions in the past two weeks. I happen to forget them now. Is that itself a problem?!

 

In a calmer state while writing this blog post and having everything enter my brain and transfer to my Word document in a timely fashion, I am telling myself I have nothing to worry about. It’s normal to sometimes struggle to find the right words. The occasional delay or all-out failure to recall something is not a sign of dementia. When I was thirty, I am sure I stumbled with my words from time to time as well. Why should I descend into dark thinking now that I am sixty?

 

The answer is obvious. Because I am sixty. I’m older. Age spots don’t lie. I must monitor my body and brain. The fact that words, sentences and paragraphs easily spewed from my mind this morning is reassuring. I can put aside doomsday thinking about dementia.

 

Until the next time my brain fails me.